The Fires in Their Eyes
by atsuibelulah
Summary: Dean Winchester walks into a bar and meets a very interesting individual.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The idea for this story was given to me by a friend, who said something along the lines of, "Wouldn't it be awesome if Neal and Dean were just hanging out at some bar?" It's become a little more complicated than that, but it was a damn good start. This is my first foray into writing for White Collar, but not my first SPN or crossover fic. Cross-posted at whitecollarfic on LJ and at Archive of Our Own.

**The Fires in Their Eyes**

Chapter 1

Dean was bored. That morning, Dad had taken one look at the bruising that had developed on Dean's ribs from the other night and called a halt to all strenuous activities for the day. He said that Dean had "to give your body some goddamn rest, for Christ's sake."

Dean had wanted to mutter something about following his own advice sometime. But he didn't. Things were still shaky from Sam leaving a few months back, and Dean decided it was better to not rock the boat.

He'd spent the morning researching a little girl who fell into a well, although she'd probably been pushed. He'd spent the afternoon posing as a grief counselor to get some more information from the bereaved mother. Great idea, Dad. So, he was feeling shitty for making a woman sob uncontrollably for about 20 minutes, still getting barely anything out of her. And now that the hunt was on, Dad was doing it solo.

"Shouldn't be hard, Dean." He'd said on his way out the door. "Regular salt and burn."

If it was going to be so easy, why couldn't Dean just come too? He could drop the lighter in the grave at least.

"Oh no," Dean repeated his father's words, "Not tonight, son." He slammed the door of the Impala and walked into the bar.

It was a little swankier than the places he normally frequented. Dean thought he'd take advantage of the monkey suit he was still wearing, having stormed out of the motel room without changing clothes, not twenty minutes before. The sign read Blue Belle's Lounge.

There was only one seat at the bar and Dean didn't want to sit at a table. That was a sure fire way to get no pussy.

Unfortunately, the seat was next to the only other man in the room who might possibly be more attractive than Dean, which was an even more effective way of getting him no action at all.

He sat at the bar anyway and ordered a beer.

Dean surveyed the room for unattached ladies, and came up with nothing, it was early yet. On his last look around, Dean met the eyes of his new neighbor. They were an intense blue color, so unusual that they kind of just captured your attention involuntarily. He'd noticed it happened to the bartender too. They were like freaking tractor beams.

He looked down quickly and grunted a "hey," to avoid awkwardness.

"Hi," Blue-eyes said, giving him a friendly nod. He looked back towards the door and waved at a man in a dark coat, who was carefully keeping his face hidden as he exited the bar.

"Friend of yours?" Dean couldn't help but ask. A guy like that was interesting. A guy talking to a guy like that was interesting. And he was bored.

His neighbor smiled brilliantly, "Business associate," he answered. "You took his seat."

Dean looked at the empty shot glasses on the bar in front of them. There were six.

Blue-eyes looked at them too and blew out a big breath. "I'm not really much of a drinker…of shots anyway. And…my associate wanted to seal some…agreements with a drink."

Dean shook his head. "What were they?"

"Vodka. Three in about a half hour."

"Shit, man," Dean said. No wonder this guy looked so happy.

"Yeah," He agreed and smiled like he'd been given a shiny new toy. "Shit."

Dean thought about what kind of people would be shooting vodka to seal a deal and he frowned at this guy, who in his drunken state looked like little more than a kid. He couldn't have been much older than Dean.

"Aren't you worried about making deals with the Russian mafia?" He asked quietly.

His eyes practically sparkled. "Ooh, you are sharp," he replied and then shrugged. "My line of work is relatively dirt-free. If I stay on their good side, I'll be fine. I'm really really good at staying on people's good side."

"If you say so," Dean shrugged right back.

Blue-eyes ordered a ginger ale and looked Dean up and down as he sipped it.

"That suit's too big for you," he said matter-of-factly, as only the drunk can deliver a non-sequitor.

Dean shrugged, "It's second-hand." He really hoped this guy wasn't hitting on him.

"It's your dad's, right?" Blue-eyes grinned when Dean nearly tipped his beer over. "It looks okay, actually."

Dean stared at him. "You psychic or something?" He wasn't kidding, but the guy didn't need to know that.

"You've cinched the pants too much. They're maybe a size too big for you. Probably fit a guy about your height, just a little bigger. Same with the jacket, but you wear it open so it's hard to tell."

"I think he bought it in '84," Dean said, thinking of the first year Dad had been on the hunt. "Not the tie," he amended. "I picked that up at Salvation Army."

Blue-eyes looked at it approvingly. "Not bad. But you know, the skinny tie is coming back."

Dean snorted.

"Oh yeah," he said, raising his eyebrows so high Dean decided to believe him. He also decided to order another beer.

After a minute of companionable silence, Blue-eyes turned to him and said, "I'm Neal," clearly incredibly pleased to be introducing himself. Dean thought maybe he just liked making new friends. "Neal Caffrey. I'm an art thief."

Dean's jaw dropped. Not that he was particularly scandalized; it's just that you didn't normally hear such a cavalier confession from a criminal. "Uh. Really?"

"Oh yeah," Neal grinned, spinning his stool a little more in Dean's direction. "And a con-man and a forger." He spoke with an excited tone to his voice, like a kid naming all of Superman's powers.

"No wonder you know so much about suits." Dean tilted his head and took a long drink.

Neal laughed, but sobered quickly. He tilted his head too, a mirror of Dean's action and said carefully, "Actually, speaking of…I was hoping to avoid a friend of mine tonight. I was wondering if you could help me out a little."

"And how could I possibly do that?" Dean asked lightly, hiding his sneaking suspicion that he had just become this guy's new mark.

The con-man smiled reassuringly, "You'd just be delivering a message. You probably wouldn't even have to move from that chair."

"And your friend. Are his favorite accessories a shiny badge and gun?"

Neal's eyes lit up with amusement and he returned easily, "Oh, the badge is his favorite, but he probably won't be wearing it when you see him. He's almost as sneaky as me sometimes."

"He must be, to be right on your tail." Dean was genuinely intrigued by this guy, but he wasn't about to agree to just anything. "Why do you think I'd be willing to help a shady character like you?"

Neal didn't answer right away. Instead he seemed to consider Dean very carefully, and then he reached out with a steady hand, tugged twice on the end of Dean's tie. "A man who wears a suit for a living, wears it like a second skin. You wear that like camouflage, or a costume."

Then he smiled again, a trust-me kind of smile that was so convincing Dean had to remind himself this guy had blatantly admitted he was deep in the business of being dishonest. "I have a feeling that I wouldn't be wrong to assume that you're no stranger to the wrong side of the law," Neal said.

"I walk a fine line," Dean said defensively, feeling like he was being accused of something. "In my work the end justifies the means." He realized he sounded like Dad. Dad's suit, Dad's words. He shut his mouth.

"Huh," Neal seemed genuinely surprised by his answer. "Seems to me, you ride on a high horse. Any petty thief can say something like that."

Any other night, Dean would have been out of there at that. Pissed off and looking for a new place to drink. So what if his horse was high? This Caffrey guy didn't know anything about Dean, or the world he lived in.

But Dean thought about it and realized he was tired of being pissed. He was tired of justifying himself and really tired of arguments. He sighed, thinking he could at least find out what the con-man wanted out of him. "What are you getting at, man?" He asked, and then added, "I'm not going to do anything illegal."

Neal's eyes grew wide, as if shocked at even the suggestion. "A message is just a message here, nothing shady at all. All I want you to do is tell my friend something," he said innocently, then smiled, very sly. "To fuck with him."

"Oh, well, if that's all. No problem."

Neal's sly smile spread to a pleased grin. "What's your name, stranger?"

Dean didn't even think, he just answered, giving Neal the same as he got. "Dean Winchester," he said. "I'm a ghost hunter. And sometimes, I kill monsters too."

"Really?" Neal asked with no trace of sarcasm or disbelief, just wide eyes and that big kid's smile.

Dean grinned. "Oh, yeah."

Five minutes later, Dean had memorized Neal's message to the badge that was chasing him and Neal had fled the scene with only a crooked smile as goodbye.

As he put another dollar down to tip the bartender for s current drink, Dean saw that a napkin had been left on the bar, right in front of Neal's empty stool. It read, "ROYALE – ROOM 220" and was signed with a little heart.

Dean picked up his beer and moved over to sit in the unoccupied seat. He picked up the napkin, with its corners already a little wet, and looked carefully at the writing. It was in precise capital letters, as if drawn instead of written.

He smiled and slipped it into his pocket, preparing to wait for the fed, Agent Peter Burke.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**The Fires in Their Eyes**

Chapter 2

Dean eyed the newest entry into the bar. He was obviously the fed Neal had been talking about. Gun barely concealed under his jacket, badge hung prominently at his belt, ugly as shit tie. He came up to the bar and sat down next to Dean.

Neither spoke until the newcomer had his first beer, a bottled import. He drank short sips and kept his eyes on the door.

Dean turned casually and said, "You know any good motels in this town?"

The fed shrugged. "Holiday Inn down the street. Can't be that bad."

"Those are for guys not paying on their own dime."

"I usually don't," he replied with a douchey smile.

Fancy, Dean thought. Fucking feds. He kind of hated them even when he was pretending to be one.

"So you're not from around here?"

"New York," he said shortly. The fed obviously didn't want to chat.

Dean didn't say anything else. He was a patient guy. He ordered another drink and watched out of the corner of his eye as the man stared between the clock on the wall and the door to his left. He stared for over an hour.

Dean chatted up a few girls while he waited. But the fed didn't say anything to anyone. He just watched and waited, scowling, and ordered a scotch at last call.

Finally, he turned to Dean, shoulders a little hunched, trying to hide his defeat. He tried to smile, tried to sound friendly and interested, and just ended up coming off a little creepy. "You live around here?"

"Nope," Dean popped the "P" extra hard, wanting to sound just a little tipsy.

"So, what brings you to these parts?"

Dean smirked, wondering if every conversation with this guy was like an interrogation. He answered, "Hunting ghosts."

The fed barked a humorless laugh. "Yeah? Me too."

Dean almost felt bad for the guy. Almost. Finally, he went for it.

"Are you Agent Burke?" He waved a finger at the fed, playing up his buzz.

The man's sharp, suspicious gaze came full on him and Dean forced himself to smile all friendly-like.

"I was just...well, way earlier tonight...I was talking to this guy about you. He said..." Dean closed his eyes like it was tough to remember. "He said to tell you he was really sorry, but he couldn't make the meeting. Something about having to get out of town in a hurry. Some kind of emergency. Oh, and he wanted me to _make sure_ and tell you, don't worry. He got his business taken care of."

Agent Burke's eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his skull. His hands were bunched tight at the bar, like he was trying to stop himself from pulling out his gun. "Did the guy happen to mention his name?" He practically growled.

"Nah," Dean waved his hand. "Handsome guy though. Like, almost as handsome as me. Really blue eyes. If you go for that kind of thing."

The fed barely stopped to pay his tab before he was running out the door.

Dean smiled and laid down two twenties, nodding to the bartender. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket and closed his fingers around the contents. Keys in his right, a cocktail napkin in his left.

The night was still young.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**The Fires in Their Eyes**

Chapter 3

It was 2:30am and Dad wasn't back yet. Dean could tell because the truck wasn't parked outside the room. He unlocked the door and walked in, already loosening his thrift store tie.

"Not bad," he murmured, remembering Neal's words and half-laughing to himself.

He'd been all right to drive, but he could feel the alcohol still in his system from the way the tie slipped through his fingers a little too smoothly, and by the way the floor met his feet faster than he thought it should.

He pulled the napkin out of his coat, placing it on the bedside table, before he shrugged it off. He changed into a t-shirt, jeans and his brown leather jacket, took a swig of Dad's "secret" handle of Jack and left the room again.

Dean walked up the stairs to the room labeled 220, hesitating only a second before knocking on the door.

There was a thump, giggle, and a kind of scuffling noise in quick succession before Neal answered. And Dean was presented with the full power of the con-man's brilliant smile.

"We're staying in the same motel," Dean said by way of greeting.

"What an amazing coincidence," Neal replied, like it wasn't one at all. Dean couldn't imagine a way that the guy could have planned his involvement in all of this, so he chalked his new friend's answer up to good humor and alcohol.

"Still celebrating?" He asked catching the eye of a skinny brunette, clad only in a t-shirt and panties, holding a half empty bottle of champagne. "I'm not interrupting, am I?" She smiled at him.

"No, no, no," Neal insisted, pulling Dean inside by the arm. "Come hang out with us."

The girl climbed back on the bed and was sitting with her feet tucked under her, taking a long drink from the bottle. Neal, in rumpled shirtsleeves and no tie, flopped down next to her, wiggling around until his head fit comfortably in her lap. His movements, though drunkenly off-kilter, were fluid and surprisingly economical; it was only a few seconds before he turned his face toward Dean and said, "This is Kate. She's fantastic."

Dean was sure Neal thought so. The look in the guy's eyes was one of absolute admiration. This girl could do no wrong. Dean decided to reserve judgment for now.

Kate smiled and waved the bottle a little in greeting.

Dean smirked. "Is your nick name Fantastic? Or do you prefer Kate?"

Neal laughed, pulling her free hand to his lips. "I told you."

Kate's eyes were caught by Neal's and the two seemed to be having a silent conversation. Then she looked back up at Dean with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

He kept his voice light, "What's he been telling you about me?"

"Nothing bad," she replied. "I love your coat. He didn't tell me about that." She was tangling her fingers in Neal's hair. Neal's eyes closed, soaking in the sensation. And Dean suddenly felt as though he really were interrupting something. He also felt a knot of jealousy tighten in his chest.

"You could take it off," she continued. "Stay a while."

"I don't even know what I'm doing here," he said mostly to himself, but he couldn't look away from them. He knew he was still there because he didn't want to be alone.

Neal opened his eyes and said, "You want to have some fun with us. You think we're interesting. And there's not enough fun in your life."

Maybe that was half-true, but it was more perceptive than Dean was about himself most of the time. "Why do you think you know so much about me?" He asked.

"We're con artists, Dean. Thieves. We know people. We know you."

Dean didn't reply. He knew enough about the con to get information out of people, but he had never tried to get anyone to trust him enough to take their money. He knew it took skill and smarts. But he was sure these two didn't know shit about his life, about the world he lived in.

He put his hands in his pockets. "You don't know as much as you think you do."

Neal lifted his head, slipping an arm across Kate's lap to prop himself up by his hand. He looked at Dean with clear eyes and a serious expression that said, believe me. His mouth added, "Then tell us about it."

Dean didn't think he was ready to do either.

"So you guys are con artists. Am I being conned now? Am I going to wake up robbed and naked or something? Cuz let me tell you, all I have are four fraudulent credit cards each with a 3,000 dollar limit, which I'm guessing is a little under your pay grade, the numbers of three chicks in that bar and a couple of bucks in my wallet. Oh," he smiled, aggressively, "and a gun in my belt and a knife in my boot. Just so we're all on the same page."

"Dean," Neal said slowly, moving to sit up. He wavered slightly and Kate scooted closer to steady him. "This is not a con. We're not going to rob you. I don't celebrate half million dollar deals with pointless maliciousness. Do you think I would enjoy that? That I'm capable of that?" His expression was the image of sincerity.

"With a face like yours, I'm sure I don't know what you're capable of," Dean replied seriously. But he was convinced Neal wasn't lying about their intentions. Not so much the half million. "I don't know what you want from me."

Neal shrugged, falling back against Kate, who was looking a little bored. "You think we're interesting, we think you're interesting too. Talk to us. Tell us about hunting ghosts. We'll tell you about the deal we made." Neal wheedled, like the information was some kind of bribe. "Maybe then you'll believe me about the money."

Neal smiled when Dean opened his mouth to deny it, and then shut it with a snap. He was just going to have to get used to how well this guy could read him.

"You're a flippin' show off," Dean said and shrugged off his coat. He slipped the gun into one of the pockets and laid it on the table. He wasn't tired and Dad wasn't back yet. He might as well.

"Awesome," Neal said, paused and then frowned, "A gun _and_ a knife?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"So?"

"What do you need them for?"

Dean shrugged. "It's a dangerous world out there, dude. The only reason I told you about them was because I wanted to let you know, I'm not an easy mark." He didn't say that he had five or six more of both guns and knives stowed in the Impala's trunk. Or that he knew he could break most of the furniture in the room into serviceable weapons, if he had to.

Neal shook his head with a little half smile, as if he didn't believe him, as if Dean was some misguided yahoo who was who felt the need to tote around his weapons to make his place in the world, or at least secure what small corner of it he thought was his own.

Dean thought about the mobster leaving the bar and the six shots he split with Neal Caffrey, who didn't see the need to carry a gun. If that guy didn't want to give Neal his supposedly promised half mil, a pretty smile wasn't going to stop him from putting a bullet in the con man's head.

Neal could read a second hand suit like a book, and talk and flash his teeth to probably anything or anyone he wanted, but seemed to have little conception of or regard for the dangers involved in his line of work.

Dean couldn't decide if it was naïveté or an extra helping of ego on Neal's part. But somehow, it made him seem more human.

Maybe, if he told them a little about hunting, it would show Neal there can be danger anywhere, and not the kind you could talk your way out of.

Then Dean thought a little more about danger.

Here he was, even with all the weapons skills Dad had taught him and all the knowledge of a life on the road and on the hunt, Dean was walking into the hotel room of two admitted con artists, criminals. He was taking off his jacket to stay and have a drink.

He didn't know what was in that champagne. He didn't know anything about these people, really. He'd just let Neal charm him there.

Dean felt like Neal was telling the truth and had been telling the truth all along. He didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but it felt right. Maybe this was his version of walking into a meeting with the Russian mob unarmed.

If he was wrong, he'd deal with it. For now, Dean moved to sit in the chair in the corner.

But Neal patted the bed next to them, "Don't be silly, Dean. We can make room."

Dean was reminded of Stevie Keller's sleepover birthday party when they'd spent a winter in South Dakota, near Bobby's place. All the boys had piled on Stevie's bed and talked twelve year old shit until one in the morning. It was one of the few times Dean had felt normal, even though he'd still had to hold things back.

He slipped off his boots, letting the knife in its sheath fall into the heel, and leaving them at the end of the bed. He sat down and slowly leaned forward, taking the champagne bottle from Kate.

The couple scooted back against the creaky headboard, entwining casually in each other's arms. Kate leaned on Neal's raised knee, his arm resting on hers, their legs tangled together, like they didn't even think about it.

Neal reached lazily for the bottle and Dean took another drink before passing it to him. His smile was just as lazy as his movements and he seemed to take extraordinary pleasure in just being drunk. Dean imagined that in a position such as Neal's, with a fed on his tail, he rarely got a chance to cut loose.

"I guess you're in no state to con anyone, Blue-eyes." The nick-name slipped out of Dean's mouth before his better judgment could hold it back.

Neal's grin spread and he winked at Dean, but it was Kate who answered, "That's why we had you work Peter."

"Your fed?" Dean asked, pulling his legs up so he was sitting Indian-style. "He must looove chasing you guys."

Kate put a hand to her boyfriend's cheek and patted it, saying playfully, "We think he has a secret hard on for Neal."

Dean's eyesbrows shot up. "Not for you?"

She smiled proudly. "Neal's the focus of the investigation. I'm just an accomplice. I don't even think they had my photo until a few months ago."

Neal's hand was moving lightly up and down Kate's bare leg as he said, "She's not his type." And Kate rolled her eyes, like it was a running joke between them.

"How do you know that?"

The con-man's blue eyes sparkled, "I've seen a picture of his wife."

Dean snorted and snatched the bottle back, deciding they were just fucking around.

Neal let it go easily and asked, with an eager tone to his voice, "Tell us about hunting ghosts."

Dean shook his head. "I still can't believe you'd just…believe me."

Neal tilted his head. "Why would you lie?" He asked.

"I-I didn't," Dean sputtered.

Neal smiled, slouching in Kate's arms so he could stretch out his foot to give Dean's knee a little push. "I know," he replied. "I believed you. So, tell us about it."

So Dean did. He told them about the case they were working on that day. How he and Dad put on suits and told people they were agents or officers or whatever they needed to be. How they left town when a job was done, because usually there were some suspicious police or questioning family members. How they never stuck around long enough to be remembered well.

Neal's expression was unreadable when he asked, "How long have you been…hunting with your Dad?"

Dean hesitated. "Oh, for forever…I don't know." He didn't think for a second that they would be fooled by his lie. But he hoped they would understand this was the one thing he didn't want to reveal. "I started helping when I was in high school. Man," he smiled, remembering. "I was so gung ho about it then, it was kind of sad."

When Dean paused to take a drink, Kate asked, "I guess you're a little less enthused about it lately?"

He grimaced and said, "I used to think it was the greatest thing in the world you could do. Helping people, who didn't know the first thing about helping themselves. And I don't care about all the moving around. I'm used to it. I love it. But I guess I'm just a little tired." He shook his head. He thought about Sam's anger and hurt. And what Dad said. "I don't know," he finished lamely.

Neal took the bottle from Dean with a small smile, took a drink, and handed the bottle to Kate before he asked, "What about finding the ghosts? Do you have those cool looking electronic gizmos?"

Dean laughed. "Naw, man. That shit's for amateurs."

"What do you use then?"

"Just your wits mostly," he answered, and Neal smiled, like a private hunch had just been proven right. "We do research, we try and figure out what the ghost wants, what the best way to find it is. And we use whatever weapons we can find." He leaned forward a little, warming to the subject. "They don't like iron. If you don't have anything else on hand, hitting them with a pipe or a crow bar will disappear them pretty quick. But it'll really only make them more mad when they come back."

Dean started to smile. His audience was wide-eyed, completely credulous. He never thought he'd be able to talk about the job with anyone who wasn't involved in his kind of life. It was refreshing, exhilarating even. "A shotgun loaded with rock salt will fuck up a ghost pretty bad. That won't get rid of it though, it just weakens them. To get it completely gone, you, ah, have to salt and burn the remains." That was the part people usually had trouble with.

"What do you mean, 'salt and burn'?" Neal asked, brows furrowed.

"You toss some salt on the body, or whatever's left, and then pour lighter fluid on it. If you don't have time to do that, you just set it on fire without any fluid. And you let it burn to nothing. The ghost is usually gone as soon as you light it up though. And I mean gone for good."

Kate's eyes were wide and Dean prepared himself for a cry of disgust or outrage. Instead she cried, "That's awesome!"

Dean grinned at her, glad she agreed with him, and looked at Neal, who only smiled wanly.

Kate scoffed and gave him a little shove, saying, "You cannot deny that that is awesome, Neal…just because you don't like guns."

Neal glanced at her, a flash of anger or annoyance in his eyes, like she'd just told a big secret. Kate rolled her eyes and pulled out of his arms. She drank the rest of the champagne in two big gulps and set the bottle on the floor, an emphasis on her movements like it was one big stuck-out tongue at him.

Dean said nothing. He'd been raised with guns. He liked them a lot. And they sure as hell came in handy on the job. But he knew the kind of reasons some people didn't like them. Unless you had a bad experience, you usually didn't have an opinion.

"It just seems like a violent way for someone to…go," Neal said to Dean, like he had to explain himself. "Shot with _rock salt_ and then burned?"

"You have to understand," Dean answered, "About the job. These ghosts…they're not really people anymore. Something happened to stop them from…moving on, I guess." He'd always been uncomfortable talking about this sort of stuff. "If they've become powerful enough to influence the living world, they've got some serious anger and hate behind them. Most of them are crazy and violent. They disrupt people's lives. If it goes on too long, people get hurt. We…Dad and I and Sam…we stop them from doing that."

He didn't realize his slip until he caught their change in expression.

"Who's Sam?" Neal asked.

"He's my kid brother," Dean replied curtly, trying to make it clear he didn't want to talk about it.

"A family business," Kate said, smiling. None of them were at their sharpest. The empty bottle was the evidence.

Dean grimaced, and mentally scrambled to think of a way to both explain himself and stop the conversation where it was. But Neal spoke first, "He's not travelling with you anymore. You would have mentioned him before, otherwise."

Dean's jaw tightened before he answered. "No, he's not. He's in college. Stanford, actually, on scholarship. He's a smart guy. Like you." He hoped that would be that.

Neal cocked his head, still questioning. "You're not happy about that? It's a big accomplishment."

"_I_ was over the moon!" Dean cried, and that terrible familiar feeling of guilt rose up inside him.

They froze at the ferocity of his reaction. Neal actually reached for him, in some sort of apologetic reflex. But Dean jumped off the bed, needing to move, to get away from that feeling, away from the expressions on their faces.

There was an awkward pause before Neal asked, "So it was your Dad who wasn't?"

Dean whirled on Neal, ready to demand why he cared so fucking much, but stopped when he saw the expression on the con man's face. It was painfully exposed, like an old wound torn open. Dean could barely imagine refusing to answer that pain, because it was just like his own.

He thought about Dad, coming down on Sam for abandoning the mission. Dean had never realized before just how important it was to the old man, tracking down the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He had always thought of hunting as a profession and some jobs just took up your whole life. If Sammy didn't want to do it, that was fine with Dean. But lately Dad seemed to see hunting only as a means to an end, as a way to gather information about the ultimate quarry, his ultimate revenge. And he wanted his sons, both of them, along for the ride. No matter what the fallout afterwards, no matter what the cost.

"No," Dean replied flatly. "He was not happy about it. Sam went anyway." And now Sammy wasn't going to come back. Not for Christmas, not for summer, maybe not ever. They weren't really a family anymore.

Kate was looking at him with pity on her face and Neal's expression was now carefully blank, as if he'd had to close off that pain Dean had glimpsed, cauterize it.

Dean didn't know what to do. He felt like the words had just been wrung out of him like a wet towel. He felt weirdly empty, but realized he had barely said anything at all. He backed up against the table, reaching blindly behind him for his jacket. He just wanted to get out, go to bed, shrug it all off until it didn't bother him anymore.

Kate untangled herself from a still and expressionless Neal and scrambled over the bed, taking two fast steps to reach Dean before he could turn towards the door. She crashed into him with enough force to bruise his tender ribs and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Dean looked mournfully in the direction of his escape, but he didn't pull away. He returned the embrace, thinking about how long it had been since someone had hugged him for comfort, to offer comfort.

He remembered Sam's farewell hug, it had been desperate and tear-filled, saying goodbye by holding on like he would never let go. Except that he had finally, and he hadn't looked back.

Kate raised one hand and lightly traced his jaw line with a long slender finger. When she reached his chin she took it between her thumb and forefinger and drew his face down to meet her eyes. "Where do you think you're going, Kid?"

"I…" he hesitated. "I don't know. It's just…" Dean couldn't explain this feeling to them. He just needed to get out of there. Get away.

"It's your first instinct," Neal said quietly, tonelessly. He slowly turned his gaze on Dean. It was like the fire in his eyes had been banked, but was slowly heating up again. It was like he was coming back from somewhere far away. "This kind of life…it makes you want to run away from everything. It's habit."

Dean looked away and Kate stiffened in his arms, turning to look at her boyfriend. Dean didn't see what kind of glare she shot him, but it didn't stop Neal from continuing.

"It's just like you said, Dean. You and your family leave the people you save before any negative consequences can catch up with you. You were raised to run away."

Dean scowled, feeling the same way he had always felt every time a teacher or a neighbor had criticized his Dad's way of raising them. "Shut up," he ground out. "My dad brought us up the way he thought was best. And you sure seem to know a lot about it, Mister Wanted-by-the-FBI. What else have _you_ been running from?"

Neal grimaced, though Dean thought it might have started as an attempt at a smile. "Touché," he replied. His eyes went distant and he licked his lips in a nervous sort of way, like it was a habit he'd broken a long time ago, before he spoke again, "Sometimes you have to run away to be free."

Dean wanted to call the fucker a hypocrite, but he thought of Sam and didn't say anything. He remembered Sam walking away, not looking back. He pulled away from Kate, but she grabbed his wrist when he tried to turn towards the door.

"Dean, if you leave now you won't be free," she said in a hard voice. "You'll just be alone again."

Dean shut his eyes in defeat and felt that rising tide of guilt and anger recede and sink low into his stomach. He knew that she was right, so he laid his jacket back down on the table. She raised herself up on her toes, pressing a kiss to his forehead and threading her fingers through his. She pulled him gently back to the bed.

The expression in her eyes was full of a soft affection, maybe something like a kinship. They walked the couple steps to stand at the foot of the bed and looked at Neal.

His blue-eyes were over-bright, haunted and Kate went to him, letting go of Dean. She kissed him on the cheek and she murmured, "It's okay, baby," and rubbed his back, like she knew exactly what was going through his head.

When Neal met Dean's eyes, he knew that Neal had someone who'd put him on this path. Someone who'd made him a criminal, like Dean had been made a hunter. They both understood you have to be taught the con, and how to con yourself into believing it was what you wanted all along.

Neal was looking at Dean like he was trying to bottle something back up that hadn't been let out in a while, piercing him with this gaze that wasn't really an accusation, but somehow made him feel like it was.

Dean felt compelled to speak. "I'm sorry," he said. "I guess you hit a nerve."

Neal swallowed and blinked any trace of the past from his expression. "Likewise," he returned, smiling ruefully.

When Kate took Dean's left hand drawing him onto the bed, Neal took his right. Dean hesitated, feeling uncertain about this strange courtship of him that these two were undertaking. He wasn't sure where it would lead, how far he wanted to go in just one night.

But Neal passed his fingers lightly over Dean's trigger-finger calluses, the barely-healed scrapes he had gotten along with those bruises. The con-man looked into Dean's eyes and tightened his grip into a solid handshake. Dean moved forward and the couple backed up together, as if performing some strange dance.

Dean paused again with one knee on the end of the bed, one foot on the floor. "I don't want to talk about the past anymore," he said quietly.

Neal smiled, now all comfort and reassurance, as his other hand moved to Dean's elbow in a smooth gesture that was somehow welcoming and unassuming. "That's fine," he replied, glancing warmly at Kate. "We can talk for a while."

He let them pull him all the way onto the bed, rumpling the blankets as he moved across them. Neal handed him a pillow and he settled between them at the head of the bed, stretching his legs out and crossing his feet in front of him.

Neal laid back and propped himself up again by his elbow, facing Dean. He began talking about living in Italy the previous summer.

He didn't talk about jobs, only what living there was like, the apartment, the city, the food. Kate, sitting back against the headboard, began to braid and unbraid thin strands of her hair, interjecting details every once in a while.

Dean watched her deft fingers move as the dark brown strands twined around them and listened to Neal weave his little anecdotes and details together.

The bed was weirdly big for this particular brand of crappy motel and there was room enough for all three of them, without an uncomfortable amount of spooning. But that wasn't to say that they didn't touch at all. Neal's feet would brush against Dean's as he spoke animatedly about something and their elbows knocked together from time to time. One of Kate's knees was resting on Dean's thigh and her face was about a foot away from the top of his head. When she laughed, his hair moved with the force of the air.

"And the espresso at the café below us was phenomenal," Neal was saying. "But not as great as this hole in the wall we found in Florence."

"You mean the hole in the wall in Venice, Neal," Kate corrected. "Florence was the underground jazz club you loved so much."

Neal smiled. "Right, right. And _that_ was across the street from your gelateria."

"From what?" Dean asked.

Kate sat up, pulled her legs underneath her, leaned forward and grabbed Dean's arm, eyes wide. "You've never had gelato?" The tone of her voice contained the seriousness of a murder investigation.

"I've never been out of the country," he replied, still confused.

She pounced on him, bouncing with emphasis. "That doesn't mean you can't have had gelato! There's gelato everywhere, Dean. There's an awesome place in…in _Cleveland_, even!"

Dean felt Neal shaking beside him and he turned to see that he had his face buried in the pillow and was silently laughing.

Kate was still bouncing on him. "Neal," she whined, "we have to get Dean some gelato! Like _yesterday_!"

"I'll get right on that," Neal said muffled, still laughing into his pillow.

Dean winced, his bruised ribs still sore. "I still don't know what it is."

Neal lifted his head. "It's Italian ice cream. It's made differently somehow to make it super smooth or something. It's also Kate's favorite thing in the world."

His smile faltered when he saw Dean wince again and move his arms to try and protect his ribs. "What's wrong?" Neal asked and leaned forward to push the girl off Dean.

"What?" She said, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"It's no big deal," Dean cried. "Seriously—ow!"

Neal had poked him kind of hard in his side.

"Is he hurt?" Kate asked with concern in her voice. She reached for his shirt.

Dean tried to bat her hand away, saying, "He's fine!"

Suddenly Neal seized his arms, pulling them behind him, not terribly smoothly, but effectively enough for Kate to pull Dean's shirt up, exposing the spackled pattern of brown and purple bruises.

Dean sagged back against Neal, defeated. His body was tired from the tension of putting up even that much of a fight; his ribs were already aching.

"What happened?" Neal asked, speaking low into his ear.

He grimaced and pulled away from Neal's equally slackened hold. Dean twisted around to face him, answering with a hard stare. "I fell down some stairs on our last job. It's just a couple bruised ribs. Totally not a big deal, at all."

Kate's cool fingers, were gently probing the discolored skin. "Didn't you wrap them up?" She looked up at him from her inspection and he fought back a smile, reminding himself that he wanted to convey his discomfort with their misplaced concern.

"It's really not that bad."

She frowned, obviously disagreeing with him.

"It's a hazardous job," he defended himself to her, "And I'm taking it easy, by the way. I would be on a hunt with Dad if he hadn't told me to take the night off."

Dean turned back to Neal. "I wouldn't have been at the bar tonight if he hadn't insisted," he said.

Neal smiled. "I'm glad he did."

Kate wrapped her arms around Dean's neck, pulling herself next to him and kissing his cheek softly. "Me too," she whispered.

Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He didn't ask them why. He knew it would be the wrong thing to do; it would ruin all of this. But it didn't stop him from wondering. He didn't get what these two thought they were getting out of spending their night dealing with his problems.

Kate moved her bare legs completely into Dean's lap and pressed herself closer to him, resting her lips on his shoulder, like one long kiss. Neal got up from the bed, ran a hand lightly through Dean's hair and walked to the bathroom.

Dean saw him stop in the open doorway. "Don't think about it too much," he said. "Your face will stick that way." He closed the door with the ghost of a smile on his lips and Dean laughed softly.

He tried to keep between the bounds of propriety, which was admittedly usually pretty hard for him, as he settled Kate more comfortably on his thighs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been with a girl like this.

It wasn't a sexual thing. It was intimate, comfortable. And Dean suddenly became terrified that he would never have it again after that night.

Something tightened in his chest again, but it wasn't jealousy. Maybe it was panic, or loss. Kate must have felt it hit him, because she whispered, "It must be so lonely," and threaded her fingers through the short hair at the back of his head.

He only pulled her closer in response.

The bathroom door opened, the light switched off and Neal emerged. He had lost most of his clothes and was now wearing only a white undershirt and a pair of boxers.

"What're you doing?" Dean couldn't quite keep the strangled tone out of his voice.

"Can't have a sleepover without your PJs," he said simply.

Kate smiled from his lap. "You're gonna have to lose those jeans."

Dean turned back to Neal. "You're surprisingly okay with this situation," he said, motioning to the girl sitting on him.

Neal just smiled knowingly, the expression a match for his girl. "She never strays far."

Kate slipped off Dean, and walked past Neal and around to the foot of the bed. Her movements were loose with alcohol, even though they had all stopped drinking long ago. She looked at Neal and said accusingly, "You were the one who brought him home." Then addressed Dean, "Unzip, please." She indicated his pants.

Usually game for removing his pants in most situations, he obliged as Neal replied, "He followed me."

Dean took issue at that and said, "I wouldn't have even begun to know where to go if you hadn't left me the napkin." He grunted when Kate pulled his jeans off by the feet. She winked at him and tossed them in the corner.

She fixed him with a strange look and asked, "How old are you, Dean?"

"Twenty-two," he answered carefully.

"Have you ever been in a threesome?"

Dean's eyes went wide and he glanced uncertainly at Neal, who was still standing next to the bed, betraying no emotion on his face.

"No," he said honestly.

Kate showed him that wicked smile he had seen when he first came into their room. "Well, that's too bad, Kid. We're going to have to rain check that experience, cuz I'm too tired to fuck either of you beautiful boys, let alone both of you at once."

Dean laughed and tried to kick her as soon as he realized her little game. "Oh man," he said, "You really had me going for a second."

"You should have seen your face," she said between giggles as she neatly avoided him. Neal came around to the foot of the bed and caught her in his arms. "Did you see his face?" She asked him.

"I saw," Neal said. "You totally got him." And he kissed her soundly on the mouth.

Dean fought the urge to whistle as he watched them, lips moving, hands roaming. Then he fought the urge to look away as one of Kate's legs began to wrap around Neal's waist. Neal's hands came around her tightly and lifted her off the ground.

But Dean saw Neal grin into the kiss and was able to narrowly avoid being hit by a giggling Kate when he tossed her unceremoniously onto the mattress. "It's time for bed." Neal reminded them, "We've all got to hit the road tomorrow."

Kate was sitting up, bright-eyed and smiling, by the time Neal made his way back to his side of the bed. She leaned over Dean and kissed Neal again, softly this time, and they broke away quickly and lay down almost simultaneously on either side of him.

As he lay between them, Dean felt like he had caught a fleeting glimpse of something magically unattainable. Some perfect relationship that only happens in movies or dreams. For him anyway.

He had seen something he could never have. Something he'd only just realized he might actually want.

A half-asleep Kate turned towards him, in some kind of search for a comfortable position, and curled her body around his, sighing into his shoulder. Dean looked over at Neal, whose eyes were open.

Blue-eyes said, "We don't do this with just anyone, Dean. We always like meeting new people. Sometimes we take them to bed. We like to go with the flow…see what happens. But this has never happened before. I just wanted you to know."

Dean swallowed. "What did happen?" He wasn't really sure. Where did the night leave them?

"You reminded me of things I didn't know I needed to be reminded of." Neal replied, the veiled words guarding strong feelings, buried memories. "We're not that different, you know?"

The edge of uncertainty in his voice pulled at Dean and he lifted a hand to grasp Neal's. "I know," he said.

Neal leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Dean's and shutting his eyes tightly. "I don't think I said thank you. For what you did earlier," he whispered. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Dean said. And after a moment asked, "What happens tomorrow?"

Neal smiled. "We go our separate ways, of course. Did you expect anything else?"

"No." Though he felt strange about it, like it wasn't quite enough. But enough of what, he wasn't sure.

"We won't forget," Neal reassured him, a tired sigh in his voice.

"Neither will I," he replied.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**The Fires in Their Eyes**

Chapter 4

Dean woke up in a tangle of limbs and bed sheets to a loud knocking sound. His body was stiff, his ribs aching right along with every sore muscle and bone in his body, just about twice as loud. He groaned and rolled his tongue around in his mouth, trying to get the taste of stale champagne and morning out of it. The only sign of a hangover was a slight headache behind his eyes.

He rolled over, trying to get comfortable again and wished the maid would freaking lay off.

"Shut uuppp," Neal whined, covering his head with his pillow and turning towards Dean.

The knocking didn't stop. Actually it grew more insistent and was now accompanied by a familiar voice that shouted, "Dean!"

Dean's eyes snapped open and his blood ran cold. He glanced at the alarm clock. It was 12:30. 12:30 and the sun was out. Shit.

"Who is it?" Neal mumbled into Dean's shoulder, still mostly asleep. Kate was now sitting up, pushing her tangled hair behind her ears, looking tired, but more alert by the moment.

"It's my Dad," Dean said, trying to keep the terror out of his voice. How had he even known where to look?

Kate's eyes went wide. "Really?"

She jumped out of the bed in a flash and was at the window, peeking out clandestinely. "Ooh," she stage whispered, "Dean, your Dad looks like a badass." She turned back towards the bed and grinned. "Ohmigod, he looks so pissed!"

Dean turned over again, flopping on his back and covering his face with his hands. "Well, that's just great."

Kate climbed back into bed and threw the covers over them all three of them. She was sitting on her knees, bending over and bracing herself on her hands so she could look at both of them. The sheet made a little tent over Neal and Dean and the sun through the window made it bright enough to see. "Neal, wake up!" Kate said, smiling.

Neal shifted and opened his eyes. He lifted his head to look over Dean and at his weirdly excited girlfriend. Kate's eyes sparkled when she said, "I have the best idea," and she pulled her arms inside her t-shirt and began to wriggle out of it.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean hissed.

"Giving your dad the surprise of his life!" she answered with that familiar wicked smile. Her shirt was completely off now, but she held it to her chest for modesty's sake. "Neal, you get the door."

Neal gave her a measured gaze for a moment, and then grinned as well, seemingly understanding and deciding to go along with whatever her plan was.

"Shit, you guys, do not—" Kate's fingers were on his lips, stopping him from saying any more.

"Just play along." Neal said, already out of the bed. He stripped off his own shirt and sauntered over to the door. "This is going to be a lot of fun."

John Winchester knocked again and shouted, "Dean, I know you're in there. I—oh." Neal had opened the door and was probably playing up that sleepy, hung-over look.

Next to Dean, Kate stretched high enough out from under the covers to be seen from the doorway and yawned, "Who is it?"

There was no way John didn't notice that she was naked. Dean was muttering "shit" over and over, hoping this was some sort of horrible dream. If they had just let him get his crap and slip out the door…

He heard his dad's voice, the familiar fake pleasant tone he used when talking to civilians, "Sorry, I—"

But Neal interrupted him, calling, "Dean, I think your dad's here."

John Winchester coughed in surprise.

Dean didn't move, too busy hating the world. So Kate shifted the cover to expose the top of his head and she gently shook him, as if he could still be sleeping at that point.

"Dean, wake up," she crooned to him and kissed his hair, simultaneously sliding a cold foot up his leg.

He jerked away and tried to make it look like he was rousing himself. All the while cursing the fucking con artists he so stupidly let into his life.

Dad had caught him with girls before, and hadn't ever said anything. Dean had sometimes even seen the barest hint of a smile as they drove away from one motel or another. But this was a different story completely. And these two were playing it up, like something had really happened. He wasn't sure if Dad would be shocked into some kind of lecture, or just never speak to him again.

"Come on, baby," Kate said, ruffling his hair.

Dean glared at her. "You don't have to live with him after this." He kept his voice low.

Now she was drawing lazy circles on his shoulder and back. The sensation through the material of his t-shirt was feather-light and sexy as hell. He propped himself up by his elbows and glanced over at John Winchester, trying to make it look as though he was tired and unconcerned.

Perhaps the fact that he was slightly turned on helped him pull it off, because about a second after he glanced back at Kate, John said, "Dean, let's go," sounding like he'd recently eaten something unpleasant, but was trying not to make a scene about it.

Kate leaned into him, suggestively and whispered in his ear, "You could run away with us."

Dean looked into her bright hazel eyes and for a moment he really fucking wanted to. He said, "Shut up," and kissed her.

He drew a hand through her tangled hair and made a show of it, lots of tongue and a little teeth. Why not? The damage was done. He might as well have some fun with them before he was carted away and dropped off at Bobby's or Pastor Jim's while Dad cooled down or whatever.

He let the kiss linger, let his hand slide to her lower back and rest on her ass, pulling her close to him. He heard a cough come from the door and broke away, not sure if it was Neal or John. Kate's eyes were wide and she was breathing a little heavy. He smiled at her, a victorious smile, and smoothly climbed off the bed.

He went to the corner for his jeans, putting them on in record time. Neal had already gotten his boots from the floor. When he handed them to Dean, the knife slipped out and fell with a clunk on the worn carpet.

Dean went over to the rickety chair at the table and slipped on his boots, not bothering to tie them properly. When he stood again, Neal had the knife in his hand and was looking at him, a grudging smile on his face.

"I guess, you weren't kidding," Neal said, gripping the knife in its holster and glancing at John. Anybody could tell just by looking that John Winchester had had a hard life, one full of danger and strife. Maybe Neal hadn't really got it until he'd seen the evidence of twenty years on the hunt.

"No," Dean replied, stepping forward. He took the weapon from Neal's hand, his fingers grazing over the uncallused knuckles, the neatly trimmed nails.

They were just inside the doorway, in plain view of his dad, but Dean leaned in and whispered in Neal's ear, "I wasn't kidding about _any_ of it."

The closeness they had experienced the night before, the intimacy, coupled with the nearness of Neal's bare skin, his morning smell of sweat and not so great breath rushed over Dean. And he felt weird, pulling back and looking sidelong into Neal's eyes.

"I know that now," Neal breathed and kissed Dean's cheek. He said, "Take care of yourself." His hand grasped Dean's shoulder, squeezing as if he didn't want to let him go. And Dean wondered, how much was for him and how much was for the con. How much of it was real?

Neal reached for Dean's jacket on the table and handed it to him. He felt the familiar weight of the gun he'd left in the pocket and slung it over his shoulder.

Dean looked at his dad, trying to seem apologetic. "Um, I'm ready, I guess." He took one last look at them.

Kate was sitting up in the bed, the sheets wrapped around her chest. She winked and blew him a long kiss. Neal smiled, walking forward and bracing his hand on the door. Dean braced himself; he knew Neal would want the last word. He was in the process of pushing John completely out the door when Neal said with an enticing smile, "I really loved it when you called me Blue-eyes, Dean."

Dean muttered, "Yeah, I'll remember that," preparing to sprint to the car, but he stopped, looking out over the railing of the second storey motel. He could see out across the parking lot, three suits were climbing out of an anonymous Ford sedan and one of them was Peter Burke.

His dad was shaking his head, ready to follow Dean, but he froze when he saw the look on his son's face. "What is it?" John asked. There must have been some kind of fear in Dean's expression.

Dean tried to hide it. "Just…just one more thing," he stammered and looked back at Neal, who had paused while closing the door and was now staring at him with a questioning gaze. "I'll meet you by the truck, Dad."

"Christ, Dean," John swore, "we have to get on the road. All your shit is still downstairs. I let you—"

"By the truck, Dad," he said with as much force as he could, still staring at Neal. He tried to make it look like his…desire was so great he couldn't bring himself to leave, when all he wanted was to keep Neal safe. Dean knew he'd have to make it look real, absolute.

He heard them knocking on one of the doors downstairs. There wasn't any time. Dean strode forward, dropping his jacket and taking Neal's face in his hands, he kissed the con man soundly, pushing him roughly back into the room.

John Winchester swore again and Dean heard his feet pounding down the stairs.

Neal stumbled backwards, made clumsy by surprise, and Dean was forced to hold him up, slipping a hand around his waist. Neal brought his arms up, grasping Dean's shoulder and twining a hand in his t-shirt, searching for purchase. They tumbled together, half on the bed, half on the floor and when Dean broke the kiss, he pressed his hand to Neal's mouth. Neal's blue eyes were wide, shocked, but his grip on Dean didn't slacken.

"Burke is outside," Dean said tensely. "They're knocking on doors. He must know you're here."

Kate, who had a moment before been just as surprised as Neal, jumped out of the bed, modesty forgotten, and began to pull clothes out of the closet. She slipped into jeans and a tank top and threw the rest in bags she produced from under the bed. Her movements were fast, economical, and almost completely calm. Dean supposed they had done this kind of escape before.

He let his hand drop and Neal spoke softly, "Dean, you can't let him see you. He'll think you're working with us." His expression was filled with worry and his hands still held on. They were entwined like lovers, having slipped all the way to the floor, and neither seemed to be able to move.

Dean wanted to say, "Aren't I?" But he knew that was stupid. He pulled away and got up to get his jacket. Dean shut the swung open door and went to the window, looking down either side of the walkway. "They're not upstairs yet. They've probably knocked on my door by now. I dunno if Dad's there or by the cars. They'll ask him anyway. He'll lie. He probably hates the feds more than you guys."

Neal laughed, now up and writing something down at the table, "We actually kind of like them. They make things interesting. Especially Peter. The guy they had on me before didn't know the first thing about the chase. He only lasted a couple months."

"Well, there you go," Dean answered and glanced at Kate, "You need any help?"

"Nah," she waved him off, "We don't have much more than this. Just the bathroom stuff." And she left the room with a plastic bag in hand.

Neal walked over to the bag Kate had just packed and began to rummage through it. He pulled out some dress pants, frowning at the wrinkles Kate's packing had caused, and put them on with a blue polo shirt. When Kate returned she shot him and his mess a venomous look. "Couldn't you have done that before I put everything in it?"

"Sorry," he said, distracted, pulling out one last thing, a dark hoodie sweatshirt. He handed it to Dean. "Put this on and pull the hood up. Peter won't be looking for you. You're built too broad to be me. And with those boots on you're at least two inches taller. If you don't look at them and act natural, the goons won't give you a second thought. Hopefully, Peter will be distracted enough to not notice you."

Dean took his gun out of the leather jacket and put in into his belt at the small of his back. He pulled the hoodie over his head and settled it over the bulge of the gun. "This doesn't really seem like your style," he said.

Neal smirked, "It is useful to be inconspicuous _sometimes_."

"I'll remember you said that the next time you want to wear an Italian suit to a suburban country club," Kate laughed, putting the bag in order again, the plastic bag going in last.  
Neal frowned at Dean, as if he just thought of something unfortunate. "Your prints aren't on file, are they?"

"Fingerprints? I think Dad's are, but not mine. Not yet anyway."

"Good," the con man smiled his brilliantly pleased smile and thrust a piece of paper into Dean's hand. "This is the number of a post office box in Queens. If you want to contact us, you can do it that way."

Dean looked at Neal as the put the paper in his jeans pocket. "How are you going to get out?"

Kate smiled, slinging a backpack over her shoulder, "Bathroom window. We only choose motels with big ones. It was too bad the biggest available bed was on the second floor of this place."

Neal grabbed the duffel and said nonchalantly, "It's cool though, we're secret gymnasts."

Dean laughed, but couldn't keep the smile on his face as he gazed at them.

Kate blew him another kiss and turned towards the bathroom. Neal smiled softly and said, "Don't worry about it. We'll see you soon, Dean."

Dean knew Neal's definition of "soon" was relative but, still he replied, "See you around, Blue-eyes."

Dean slipped past the feds unnoticed and approached his dad quickly, glancing sideways to make sure Burke was still busy knocking on doors. They'd gotten to the second to last on the first floor of the motel.

John Winchester frowned at his son, but said nothing immediately.

"Hey Dad," Dean said weakly, "I need you to do me a, uh, a huge favor. I kind of need to get out of here like, _right now_. Can you grab my stuff from the room and meet me outside of town?" He couldn't keep the please-don't-be-mad hesitance out of his voice.

John folded his arms. "Those feds are looking for a couple of kids, say they ripped off some museum in Chicago, and a couple more in New York before that."

Dean cringed and said, "Uh, maybe, well I mean, I don't know about the art, but one of the feds might be able to ID me as…as an accomplice."

"What?" John hissed. "What did you do? What were you _thinking_?"

"Dad!" Dean looked pointedly at the agents. "It really wasn't a big deal. It wasn't even illegal! I promise I'll tell you. Can I just get out of here?"

John looked at Dean as if something had just dawned on him. "Dean, did you kiss that boy in front of me just to get me out of there?"

Dean's insides squirmed. He'd really hoped to avoid talking about that. "I…didn't want the feds to see my face either."

"Jesus, Dean." John wiped a hand across his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. "All right. This is what you're gonna do. Are you listening?"

Dean had been eyeing Burke, who was on his cell phone at one corner of the second floor balcony. His attention snapped back. "Yessir."

John pointed to the Impala. "You're gonna get in that car and you're gonna drive. You're not going to stop until you get to Jim's. When you get there, you're gonna tell him everything that happened here, and I mean everything. He'll tell me the pertinent information, because, Goddamnit, Dean, I am sure that _I do not want to know_."

Dean swallowed, feeling relieved and stung at the same time. He did want to talk to Pastor Jim, really badly actually. But he would have like to give Dad some kind of explanation, some reassurance.

He fished his keys out of his jacket and nodded, tightening his jaw. "Yes fine," he said and then added, "Sir."

He turned from John and walked, not too quickly to the Impala and climbed in, taking a deep breath. He didn't look back and he didn't look at Peter Burke. He kept on driving until he reached Pastor Jim's.

When Dean got there, after he took a leak, the first thing he asked was, "Hey Jim, if I wanted to get a P.O. Box, how, uh, would I do that?" He paused at the open doorway to Jim's study, aka the kitchen.

Jim looked up from his worn-out, dog-eared bible. He smiled at Dean and closed it, pushing it off to the side of the relatively clutter-free table. "Why don't you just send your mail here?"

"Could I?" It had never occurred to Dean that he could do that, they definitely came through Pastor Jim's enough that he could pick up mail from time to time.

"Sure you can," Jim grinned. "What are you doing with mail anyway, kid?"

He opened his mouth to begin the story, but closed it again, not sure how to start.

Jim stood and held a hand up, saying, "Hold on a minute, Dean. By the look on your face, I think this'll be a long one. Siddown," he motioned to the chair opposite him, "I'll make some cocoa."

Dean sat heavily and sighed, rubbing his face hard. While Pastor Jim rummaged around at the counter and sink to his left, he lost a few minutes thinking about Neal's smile and Kate's arms around him. He stirred as if just waking when Jim set a steaming mug in front of him.

Jim sat down and folded his hands in front of him. "Now, tell me," he said.

Dean looked up into the familiar face and saw the willingness to listen, the desire to help. Not that anything in particular was wrong, Dean told himself. He just really wanted to tell someone about it, as if somehow, in the telling, the past night would become more real.

Neal and Kate wouldn't be allowed to join the sea of people Dean had met, known, and left, never to be seen again, eventually to be forgotten.

He nursed the warm cocoa, complete with mini marshmallows and told Pastor Jim the story. He started with the bruises and ended with the kiss.

The next day, Dean bought a cell phone of his own and a post card from a local bookstore, one of those generic ones that just have famous people on them. This one was James Dean in that red jacket from Rebel without a Cause. He wrote Pastor Jim's address and the new number on the back of the card and added the message, "in case of emergency," with a little heart.

He didn't wait for Dad to show up. He asked if Jim had heard about any hauntings in the area, got the information and hit the road. Dean had gone solo before, but only under Dad's direction. He'd given Jim the new number, and was sure Dad would call when he got around to it.

Dean hadn't decided yet if he would answer.


End file.
